What You Want
by RochelleRene
Summary: A fluffy sexy Huddy one-shot set during early season 3. Nothing heavy, despite the ketamine aspect. Just a little fantasy.


**So, I was running last night and got caught in a thunderstorm of epic proportions, getting soaked two miles from home. And I was listening to my iPod as I ran home and what should come on but "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Thus was born a *fluffy,* first-time Huddy fic, set during early season 3 when the ketamine is still allowing House's leg to function well. I hope you like it.**

He relished the impact of his foot as it hit the center of the puddle with a satisfying splash. He felt a sense of near-glee when he darted to the side suddenly, to avoid a different puddle. He was in the flow, carpe-ing the Diem, and thinking only about what his body was now able to do… again. It was like waking from a bad dream, recovering from a long illness, returning home to the familiar bed. He was running.

Cuddy was driving. The wipers were on full speed, but she still couldn't see very well through the curtains of rain washing over her windshield. She was driving very slowly in the right lane as she began her commute home, and her caution is what allowed her to spot him, his graceful gait as he loped along the sidewalk. She drove past to him, adjusting the rearview mirror to confirm her observation, and sure enough it was House, running through a thunderstorm. She drove around the block and pulled over into the parking lane several yards ahead of him and rolled down the passenger side window. The wind and rain blew in, disturbing her little cocoon of warmth and soft leather.

She saw the cords from his earbuds dangling down his soaking wet tee shirt, so she honked as he was passing her, startling him out of his Zen moment and causing him to turn with an angry face toward her car. He bent down and peered in the window, recognizing her car and her face simultaneously, his sneer softening into a smirk.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy shouted out the window. House removed one earbud and took a step closer. "Are you insane? You're gonna slip and break your good leg, or get hit by a car, or struck by lightning!"

He walked over to the car and bent into the window frame, his long fingers curling over the ledge. "I'd give you some baptismal, rebirth metaphor, but the truth is I was two miles from home when it started and, once you're wet…"

"You're an idiot and you're gonna get hurt," she told him.

"Sorry, Mom. I'll be home before the streetlights come on."

"They're already on," Cuddy snapped. "You're, like, four miles from your apartment."

"Three point six."

Cuddy sighed, exasperated with the way everything with him was so difficult, so drawn-out and cumbersome. "Get in," she told him. "I'll drive you home."

"Sorry, I only accept rides from strangers with candy."

"I have gum," she replied flatly.

He snickered. "I'm okay, Cuddy," he replied. She could hear the big fat drops pelting his back.

"Well, you might not stay that way running through a dark thunderstorm, and I don't have the time this week to deal with my diagnostician dying, so get in."

He grinned. "Can we pencil in a death wish for two weeks from now?"

"I didn't do a risky procedure on you just to let you get hit by a car a month later," she scolded. "And you're letting all the cold air in. Just get in. Or don't. I don't care."

"You're such a liar," he teased. "You obviously care. Why, is still unclear. But don't say you don't when you pulled over and are badgering me into your car."

"Why do you have to talk so much?" she said, more to the universe than to him. In response she heard the click of the door opening and looked over. "Stop!" she shouted. His dripping muddy shoe froze midair as he paused his entrance. "Um, you need to put your shoes in the trunk."

House stood on two feet again and stooped to stare at her incredulously. "What?"

Cuddy sighed again. "They're disgusting. This is a new car. I don't want you to get it all dirty. You're already letting it get all wet."

House stared at her, grinning mischievously. "Talk about metaphors," he replied. Cuddy rolled her eyes at him. "You're gonna make me walk barefoot in a thunderstorm?" he teased.

"Like, three yards, you big baby! Hurry up." She pulled the lever and the trunk opened with a pop. She heard him shuffle to the back of the car, then just listened to the howling storm for a moment. Of course he'd left the door wide open.

Suddenly his head popped into view again. "Should I take my clothes off too? Wouldn't want to make things even wetter…" He smirked at her.

"I'm pressing the gas pedal down in 3, 2…" House slid in and shut the door. Cuddy slid back into traffic and they rode in silence for a minute.

"Let me guess," House said, interrupting the silence. "Your back-up career choice was stunt driver." He was mocking her slow, careful driving.

"Unlike some people, I prefer to ensure that I will live another day," she snipped back.

"So you can enjoy twenty-four more hours of approving purchase orders and speeds under fifty miles per hour?"

"Oh, I forgot. Your life is so full and stimulating. What was I thinking?" She shot a glare over his way and couldn't help noticing the way the rain was still beaded up in his hair, on his skin, and sliding down his neck. She focused on the road again.

"The carpet's nice," House commented, rubbing his bare feet along the floor of her car. She couldn't help laughing.

"Yeah, well, now you know why I wanted to keep it that way."

"So all your other barefoot passengers wouldn't get their feet dirty?"

"Yup," was all she said in response. There was no use trying to get the last word. She kept hearing an unfamiliar buzzing and finally realized it was the sound coming out of his hanging earbud, dangling against his chest. "What are you listening to?" she asked, nodding to his iPod clipped to the waist of his shorts.

"Currently?" he asked. "T-Bone Walker."

The words hung there, blending with her regret in asking. "Oh," was all she could think to say and she could feel his I'm-so-much-more-interesting-than-you-are look, even if she couldn't see it. But he surprised her and instead of mocking her he popped his other earbud out, leaned over and put them in her ears. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated on driving while his arms wove under hers and his warm breath skimmed over her face.

For him, it was amusing to see her irritated little face as he tucked her hair back and fiddled with her earlobes. He loved bugging her, and getting in her face while she drove on wet pavement was the equivalent of yanking a dangling pigtail.

Cuddy listened to the blues music filling her head. "Loud enough?" she shouted at first, feeling self-conscious, not having the foggiest idea what she should say about the music. But when House sat back into the seat and stared out the window instead of at her, she relaxed and just listened as they cruised. She didn't know enough to appreciate it fully, but she liked it fine.

House _was_ watching her, but surreptitiously. He liked putting Cuddy in situations that were new and strange, sneaking behind her manicured façade, a little closer to the complicated human being underneath. He had the volume loud enough, and knew the music well enough, that he could hear what she was hearing in his head. When it came to a particularly intricate segment of playing, he watched her eyebrows raise slightly and knit in that empathetic way, when someone is feeling someone else's effort, and he knew she still had a soul in there after all.

"One of the best guitar solos of all time," he commented.

She glanced at him quickly and shouted "What?" causing him to laugh. He pulled out her right earbud.

"I can almost play that," he bragged.

"I didn't know you _almost _did anything."

She was nearing his apartment and pulled into an open space close to his door. They sat there, though, as the song continued. She looked over at him. "You like it?" he asked, hopeful.

"Why do I feel like I'm in high school?" she teased. "Will you put it on a mix tape?" she chirped sarcastically. But she smiled and continued to listen. When the song ended, the next, of course began. Her smile widened and then she looked at the floor of the car. House wondered what was causing her to clearly blush and he carefully reached for the loose earbud, putting it loosely to his own ear. It was the Stones, "You Can't Always Get What You Want," and he had to smile and look elsewhere too.

"Like you planned it," she teased, laughing.

"I'm not _that_ good," he admitted.

They sat in a minute of silence that was both awkward and tantalizing.

"I still think of … you know. Every time I hear it," Cuddy laughed nervously. "Isn't that dumb?" She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, both hands still sitting on it, ready to proceed with the planned agenda.

"Nope," he replied. She got excited, like he was going to admit the same, but he continued. "It's perfectly normal to associate the music we hear during," he cleared his throat, "intense events with the memory of the event. It's neurological."

She felt a slight sting of rejection, but was also amused by his choice of words – an intense event. To say the least. "Thank you, doctor," she replied coolly.

They both continued listening to the song as the rain pelted the car with metallic clinks. When it was over, Cuddy removed the earbud from her left ear and House lowered his hand from his. She handed it back to him and he took it, not meeting her eyes, while she placed her hand carefully back on the steering wheel. "Well, thanks for the ride," he said. And it sounded just so perfectly worded for a joke that they both laughed without making one.

House opened the door, slid out without a word, and slammed it shut. Cuddy finally exhaled fully, and was about to shift into drive again, when he knocked on the window. She lowered it, her breath catching in her throat again for some reason. She waited for what he would say when their eyes locked.

He stared at her, her eyebrows raised in inquiry, a controlled tight grin on her lips, her large eyes focused on him, and he had about a zillion things he might want to say run through his mind, but what came out was, "I need to get in your trunk." Cuddy looked confused for a spit second, then laughed, too loudly.

"Of course!" She leaned down to the little lever and he saw her hair fall in a curtain across her face, watched her tuck it behind her ear when she sat back up. She looked at him, he nodded, and he walked back to the trunk.

Cuddy felt stupid. She _did _feel like she was in high school again. What did she think was happening here? What was she wanting to have happen here? When she heard the trunk slam shut she composed herself, but just as her hand touched the gearshift again, his stupid face appeared in her window.

"Wanna come hear me almost play the T-Bone shuffle?"

"Huh?"

He grinned. "The song. I can prove it to you," he said, as if she'd ever challenged his claim.

"You want me to come up to your apartment so you can play guitar for me? Now I really feel like I'm in high school."

"Except you're in a business suit and I can actually play the guitar," he teased. The rain poured off his ear lobes, his hair, the end of his nose. He looked… well, kind of adorable. There was an expectant silence. "It's not a marriage proposal, Cuddy. You can just say no. I won't cry." She bit her lip. "But I might slip on the stairs in my wet bare feet, completely nullifying your heroic act of rescue."

Cuddy mustered her best cocky look and stared at him as she pushed the button to raise the window, his face becoming distorted by the wet glass. She saw him stand up, and she let him take two defeated steps before she shut off the ignition. She was still watching him, and she saw him freeze. She opened her door and got out into the torrent. She couldn't help squealing at the cold rain quickly penetrating the borders of her trench coat. She ran as gracefully as she could to the shelter of his door stoop, while House plodded along behind her, taking exaggerated heavy steps that splatted on the wet pavement. She gritted her teeth to keep from smiling with them.

He opened the door and they went up the single flight of stairs. She was behind him and she watched him move so evenly, smoothly. "It's really amazing," she said. He looked back at her.

"Now if I said that when walking behind you up some stairs, I would be chastised."

"Your leg, you moron. I just… I can't believe it worked."

"Yeah, well" he trailed off. They reached the door to his apartment and he looked at her. "Thank you," he said quickly, immediately averting his eyes to the key and lock. He couldn't watch her feel his gratitude.

He opened the door and Cuddy was about to step in, but he turned quickly and leaned in the doorway, blocking her entrance. She cast her eyes up at him indulgently, waiting for the catch.

"You have to take your shoes off," he explained. "You might get my apartment dirty."

"Are you serious?" she asked, irritated.

"No, I usually just back down when you push me a little," he replied sarcastically.

"They're Louboutins."

"They're muddy Louboutins."

Cuddy sighed and stepped out of her pumps. She gave him a pouty face when she looked up at him, four inches higher than he had been, and he stepped aside and waved her in. She entered in her stockings and surveyed the place. She'd been in his apartment before, but each time she'd been distracted by something – an argument they were having, a worry that he might be dead in a pool of his own bodily fluid. She'd never come in just to come in.

House walked down the hall and came back rubbing his head with a towel. He tossed her another and she pressed it to her face and hair self-consciously, still standing by his entry table.

"You can come all the way in," he teased her. "It's not booby trapped. I like boobies." He walked to the kitchen. Cuddy stepped gingerly toward the couch and, after standing there awkwardly for a few seconds, decided her best bet was to just sit down.

House came out holding two drinks in rock glasses. He sipped his neat while he handed her the other on ice. She smiled at the funny things he filed away in his crazy brain and took her drink. "Nice hydrating post-run beverage," she commented.

"It's got electrolytes and stuff," he replied in a bratty teenage voice. "So, now… what you've all been waiting for." He turned toward his piano and walked behind it a little, picking up a guitar case and laying it on the bench to open it. He was still in his wet clothes and Cuddy couldn't stop staring at the way they clung to his body, the way she could see his breath rise and fall in his chest. House had his guitar now and came to sit on the edge of a chair to begin tuning it a little. He looked totally relaxed, while Cuddy sat perched on the edge of the couch, tense and thinking too much. She took a big gulp of her drink.

House looked up at her then, his blue eyes twinkling. "Ready?" he asked.

Cuddy grinned and shrugged. "As I'll ever be."

He began playing, simple strumming at first, his head bobbing just slightly, in sync with his heel, which was bouncing in time to the beat in his head. She stared. She stared at his legs, bent and spread, the guitar resting lightly on one. She stared at his arms, tense and moving as the long muscles that ran to his fingers made delicate changes in position. And she stared at those fingers, moving expertly over the strings, making it sing. She didn't know a thing about the blues, really, but she knew it sounded sad, raw, and good. And she liked sad, raw, and good.

House had started to feel silly when he'd been getting the guitar, remembering her accusation that this was a juvenile act of ego, a silly way to show off to a girl. But after he started playing he allowed himself to just get lost in the music a bit, and he was then only half-conscious of her presence. That is, until he glanced up to make sure she wasn't totally bored and staring at the exit, and he saw her watching him. He'd had to look away promptly, but the glimpse he saw of her admiration was intoxicating. So he kept playing. He got to the difficult solo and played it better than ever, the mistakes probably only evident to him, since Cuddy was so unfamiliar with it. He ended the song with a final strum of the guitar and sat there with his eyes closed for a moment, enjoying the music and enjoying her seeming to enjoy him. When he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw that she had finally shifted back into the couch, sitting like a human being instead of a caged animal, and that she was smiling. She started to clap, teasing, but kind.

He stood up, bowed extravagantly, mimed like he was going to smash his guitar rock star style, then walked back to the piano and put it away. "So, now you know," he said, latching the case.

"Now I know what?"

"That I can do other things besides diagnose people and annoy you."

"I knew that," she said. "You also annoy Wilson." She grinned at him and he gave a mock sneer back before stooping to pick up his drink.

He stood there, looking down at her on the couch, her hair still half wet and sticking to her neck. She sat there, looking up at him, his eyes trained on her and narrowed slightly, studying her. They were in the same place. Their pulses thumped in their ears. Their lips tingled, something having triggered their expectation of being touched. Their hands were antsy, longing to run along something important. Their minds raced, wondering where this was going in the next ten seconds, and from there, the next ten hours, days, years. Their egos waited, caging every impulse, waiting for a sign that it was safe to release them. They watched each other sip their drinks. They stopped thinking of what to say next. They swam in the electricity.

"It sounded even better live," she finally said. A small gesture. A teenage act of flattery. But it was enough to let his ego release the hounds. He walked across the room to her, stooped down so he was at eye level with her. He heard her gasp. "I really was just gonna drive you home," she said, again, more to the universe than to him. But it was her assent, her consensus with him that the charge in the air wasn't going to allow this to end here. He didn't do anything at first because it was so fucking hot, this moment when he wasn't certain if he was allowed to touch her, but was pretty sure he was. He was high off it.

Cuddy pressed her body back against the couch, further away from him in a way, but inviting him in, in another way, like a dancer stepping back so her partner could fill in the space she'd made for him. She saw him fighting a grin, his eyes glazing over for a moment, and she knew he was thinking something. "What?" she asked, hoping she wasn't misunderstanding something, that she wouldn't be sent home just when she'd emotionally allowed the first domino to fall.

House stood and walked away from her and she felt the chill of his absence. She was chiding herself for being so stupid and impulsive, when Mick Jagger's voice filled the room. He walked back over to her, standing close, looking down at her again so she had to crane her head almost straight up to meet his eyes. He was grinning, but bashful. "Too cheesy?" he asked.

She smiled. "I mean, it depends." Her voice was shaky.

"On what?" He knew there was a quip coming.

"If we're gonna sit here and drink, no. If we're gonna reenact our 'intense event,' then probably." But she smiled widely at him.

"It's a live version. Does that help?" he asked.

"I never said it hurt." He licked his lips. She bit hers.

"I think about it too," he finally admitted. "Every time I hear it."

They were obliquely talking about what they wanted, and no one had touched anyone yet. The tension was thick, almost suffocating. Cuddy stood up because she was sick of waiting, sitting there passively, like bait. When she stood, their clothing touched and the heat between them was palpable, like the invisible waves that roll off a radiator.

House swallowed. "Am I… are we doing what I think we're doing?" Cuddy swallowed and looked up at him. They were both still in the same place, longing, but scared. The risk with this person was too great, the pain of a misunderstanding impossible to shirk.

"What do you think we're doing?" she asked. She allowed the rasp of her voice to communicate what she couldn't say explicitly, for fear of rejection. It was a last grasp for protection as they stepped out into the open.

His eyes roamed over her body, stopping on her face again. "I think you're gonna let me get you dirty," he teased, a seductive smirk playing on his lips.

Cuddy inhaled sharply, then reached across the centimeter between them and placed her hands on his chest. She pushed against his body as she ran her hands down the wet fabric of his tee shirt, grabbing the edge when she reached the bottom and pulling it up. He helped her get it over his head and threw it on the floor with a moist floomp. His skin was damp, but hot as she ran her hands over the same path, but without the fabric barrier this time. She looked up at him as she hooked her fingers on his waistband. "I never could wash you off anyway," she confessed.

House bent and, with two beautiful functioning legs, hooked his arm under her ass and lifted her against him, his free hand sliding down her thigh and urging it up - easing her skirt up with it - to wrap around his waist. He looked up now, into her eyes, glazed over with lust, and he felt her pelvis slowly arching into him, and retreating. She was literally writhing in his arms and he had to close his eyes for a minute, unsure whether it was to compose himself or to bask in it. He carried her down the hall, making her laugh when he reached out and turned up the volume knob on the stereo as they passed by it.

When they entered his room, he didn't lay her on the bed, as she'd anticipated. He rarely did what she anticipated. Instead, he pressed her up against the wall, yanking her skirt further up her thighs, running his hand along the lace top of her black stockings.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he warned her, and she smiled at his formality - asking permission, albeit in his gruff Housian way, while he stood between her legs, his fingers sneaking under her panties at her hip.

"I was hoping that was still part of this," she teased.

His lips didn't crash into hers. They didn't smother her or overwhelm her senses. They closed over her bottom lip so carefully, his tongue slowly, so slowly, gliding along the bit of her body that was in his mouth. Cuddy moaned and he released her bottom lip only to taste her top. She felt his stubble along her chin, his hot breath mingling with hers. Her hands ran over his muscles, hard and tense with his efforts. She opened her mouth and her legs more fully to him and he came right in, his tongue re-introducing itself to hers, only to be welcomed like a long-lost love. His hands alternated roles, each getting their turn to either tug open her zippers and buttons or cup her ass and hold her up between the wall and his body. That first moan had loosened a valve inside of her and now each touch he made was greeted with another, or a gasp, or a sigh. His fingers moved expertly again, but now made her sing.

House smelled her. That was what made the memory come to life for him. He remembered the exact scent of her. Surely her shampoo, her perfume could not be the same as twenty years ago. What he was detecting, inhaling, essentially huffing, was the essence of her. And it only got more intoxicating as more and more of her skin was revealed to the air, to him. He had started to work delicately, but he found himself soon ripping her intricate clothing from her body, tearing seams and popping buttons. He felt her legs pull back and her feet began forcing his shorts down his legs, causing him to involuntarily thrust himself toward her at first. When her feet met the ground, she stood and pushed her skirt down to join the pool of fabric at their feet. With her on her feet he was able to slide her shirt and jacket off fully, which left her standing there in her slightly askew bra and panties. And they were not the sensible, machine-washable, cotton garments that a woman who drives extra-slow in a rainstorm wears. They were the ornate, skimpy, outrageously accentuating garments that a woman who fucks her teaching assistant wears. He knew she was still in there.

He picked her up again and now moved her to the bed, where he could lay her out and look at her. She was transported and any shyness or hesitation she had felt lay with the wet clothes on the floor. Now she looked at him hungrily - her arms thrown over her head, her back arched – as he cupped her knees and memorized her body, decorated with lace and silk.

"Like _you_ planned it," he teased her.

"I _am_ that good." She smirked at him.

He slid his hands behind her back and pulled her up to a sitting position in front of him. She scooted close to him again, dying for his skin against hers. He felt her lips moving along his neck, his clavicle, and he found her bra clasp and opened it. Then he playfully pushed her, and she played along and flopped back onto the bed, weaving her arms out of the straps and tossing her bra over the edge.

She watched him looking at her and the coil tightening down low in her belly felt strained, craving release. His every touch, his every look, was just pushing her higher and she was craving the push that would lead her to the edge. But he was clearly in no rush as he just stared at her body, trailing his fingers along her thighs, his own desire evident and insistent just inches from her. But he didn't take off her panties yet. He crawled over her body and lowered his head to her breast, closing his lips over her nipple and tasting it in the same slow, careful way he had initially tasted her mouth. Cuddy's hands moved to his head and pulled him closer, insisting that he taste more of her. He moved to her other breast while his fingers took over at the cool spot his mouth had left. Feeling his tongue and fingers move over her breasts was sending current straight through her and she was bucking up against his body, so close to orgasm already that she feared she'd go insane or embarrass herself begging him for it. But she didn't need to, she realized, when she felt his other hand slip into her panties and finally, finally, touch her sex. "Oh my god," she breathed at the ceiling. She was being a lazy lover, she knew, just lying there and letting him do most of the touching, but what he was doing felt too good for her to think much about anything but her own body, her own hot, screaming need.

When House slipped his fingers inside of her and heard her cry out, he couldn't help but get greedy. He kissed along her neck and jaw, but couldn't resist returning to her breasts for more, to make her scream and moan with abandon. As he felt her wetness, felt her clenching around his touch, he was almost oblivious to his own body and its aching cravings. He just wanted to make her come, slowly, carefully, at the moment he intended her to. So he played with her, forcing his kiss elsewhere, or easing the pressure of his hand on her sex to remove her panties when she seemed so, so close. He wasn't trying to tease her, but to learn her, see which things got her there and how fast. But eventually his desire to set her free and see her in complete bliss won over his studies. He lifted his face from her body, pushed deeper into her and harder against her clit, and watched her lungs fill with breath it would not release, watched her fingers clench for a rope that was not there, watched her eyes meet his in gratitude before rolling back and closing. He heard her gasp and scream a drawn out, animalistic version of his name. He felt her shake.

For hours, Cuddy would swear later, though her intellect knew better of it. She could swear she'd come for hours in that moment, riding a wave of such unbelievable pleasure, such ecstasy, that she didn't care where it took her.

It _was_ an intense event. And though the song had long ago ended, once again Jagger got to narrate her ride. Now the whole fucking album would destroy her.

She lay there, trembling beneath him as he watched her. She wanted to go back immediately to ask him to do it all again. She opened her eyes and met his, now open and vulnerable, adoring her. "Thank you," was all she could say that came close to articulating her present feelings. He laughed softly, but the exhale of his laugh mixed with the exhale of his lust and she was turned on again immediately by the sound of his wanting her. She carefully bent her leg to her chest, then hooked it over his shoulder. His body shifted, immediately moving into position. One of his hands propped himself over her, the other ran up and down the length of her other leg, feeling the silkiness of her skin and the spot where it met the silkiness of her stocking.

"Come on, House," she murmured. "Show me what else you're good at." He laughed again, but his body had decided to just take over now, sick of his mind's relentless control, and he was pushing inside of her, all the way inside of her, before the words had left her lips. Above his own groan of satisfaction he heard her whisper of "Oh my god, yes," and it made him groan and thrust again before he even knew what was happening. He felt her all around him and all he wanted to do was pull out and push in again to keep experiencing that juxtapositon of with her, without her, with her, without her… with her. She was watching him now, he knew, as her hands roamed his chest and shoulders, cupped his face and fingered his mouth. He gently bit a finger that dragged across his lips, all the while moving, pushing, feeling her. He didn't even entirely want to come because he didn't want this to stop, this complete obsession with what they were doing to each other. But when he felt her hand push between them, touching herself as he entered her, and when he moved his hand to push it away, to insist that he do the honors, he kept incrementally increasing his speed, his force, until she wasn't focused on him anymore, her head thrown back again, her other leg clambering clumsily to his shoulder so she could feel him more deeply. His mind wanted to bask in the current pleasure but his body wanted just more of it, so his fingers moved knowingly, and when she tensed and cried out into his room again, he tagged along and moaned his climax along with her, alternatingly garbling her name and gasping for breath. As he recovered he still felt her rhythmic pulses, her legs trembling against his neck, her chest rising to meet his forehead as she filled her lungs. He collapsed on her, shifting to the side to not crush her. And after a few moments, she did exactly what he'd hoped, yanking some portion of the covers over them and beginning to fall asleep in his arms.

When he saw that she was staying, that she was content with all that had happened, he smiled uncharacteristically widely. He couldn't fight it. She opened one eye and looked at his unusually expression. "Amazing what having two functioning legs will do for a guy's mood," she teased.

He closed his eyes to say it. It was his clumsy attempt at pillow talk, but it was true. "The ketamine… I got what I wanted," he admitted. "But I'm greedy." He pulled her on top of him and put his hand in her hair. "I think I still might try to get what I need."


End file.
